


Leave A Note

by NicoAndTheNineGalaxies



Series: Vent Fics [12]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (personally i prefer prinxiety but that's just my opinion), Friendship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Paranormal, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, could be read as prinxiety, ghost!roman, it's up to you, or analogical, or moxiety - Freeform, the interactions could be read as romantic or platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 09:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoAndTheNineGalaxies/pseuds/NicoAndTheNineGalaxies
Summary: “Killing yourself in an alley in the middle of the night? Pretty lonely, isn’t it?”“What do you care?”“I care,” the stranger began, stepping forward, “because I’ve been in your place before.  And anyway, it’s pointless to try if you haven’t left a note, so...have you?”





	Leave A Note

**Author's Note:**

> TW for suicide, implied death, and self-harm.  
> Galaxy ||-//

“It’s not going to work if you don’t leave a note.”

Virgil spun around, clutching his knife close to his chest as he sought out the source of the voice.  “Who the hell are you?”

The dark figure standing by the wall clucked their tongue disapprovingly.  “Killing yourself in an alley in the middle of the night? Pretty lonely, isn’t it?”

“What do you care?”

“I  _ care,” _ the stranger began, stepping forward, “because I’ve been in your place before.  And anyway, it’s pointless to try if you haven’t left a note, so...have you?”

Virgil shook his head, fingers tightening around his knife’s blade and letting it slice delicately through his skin, blood drizzling idly down his palm.  “Nothing I could say felt right.”

The stranger smiled sadly, just a glint of white teeth and red lips in the darkness.  “Nothing ever will. You’ve either got to find something that works or you’ve got to keep living.  Your brain won’t let you do it until you’ve said what needs to be said.”

“If you know I won’t be able to do it, why are you still trying to stop me?”

The stranger shrugged.  “Maybe I’ve misread you.  Maybe I’m projecting. There’s a whole ocean of mistakes I could have made, so I’m sticking around.  You know, just to be safe. I’m sure you know how triggering it can be to watch someone kill themselves - you look like the kind of person who would watch Dead Poet’s Society.”

Virgil smiled, just a bit.  “We watched it in my eighth grade English class, four months after my first suicide attempt.”

The stranger winced sympathetically.  “That’s rough. My roommate used to say it was his favorite movie, but I think he was just trying to prove something.  He only ever seemed to watch it when I was having a particularly dangerous day. Now he only watches it once a year.”

“Your roommate sounds like an interesting person.”

The stranger chuckled.  “Oh, he was. Is? I’m not sure.  He’s still around, but he doesn’t talk to me these days.”

“Oh,” Virgil said quietly, glancing down at the ground, where his blood had begun to drip, staining the pavement.

“Well, anyway...have you got someone to go home to?”

Virgil almost nodded, until he remembered - Patton wasn’t home.  He was visiting his parents back in Florida, and he wouldn’t be back for another three days.

“No,” he said after a long pause.  “I don’t.”

The stranger smiled again.  “Lead the way, then. You won’t be killing yourself tonight.”

Eyes narrowed, Virgil took a step back, pressing himself against the brick wall behind him.  “I still don’t know who you are,” he pointed out. “And I don’t exactly make a habit of bringing strangers back to my apartment.”

“My name is Roman Prince.  Happy?”

After a few moments’ hesitation, Virgil sighed.  “Fine, whatever. Let’s go.”

“I mean, think of the worst that could happen,” Roman pointed out, trailing after Virgil as he began walking, knife held limply at his side.  “Maybe I’m a murderer. Either I let you go home on your own and you kill yourself, or, if I  _ am _ a murderer, I go home with you and kill you myself.  Either way, in a worst-case scenario, you die.”

“You could be a robber,” Virgil countered.  “I don’t think my roommate would be too happy if we got robbed because of my stupidity.”

Roman simply shrugged.  “Good thing I don’t plan on robbing you.”

 

They arrived at Virgil’s apartment, and Virgil’s gaze flicked to the clock in the living room.

1:34 AM.

He sighed, dropping his knife on the kitchen counter and rubbing his eyes with his bloodied hand.  “Uh, you can just chill in the living room, I guess. I’d better go handle...this,” he said, studying the cuts on his fingers with a grimace.  The blood flow was certainly slower than it had been, but it hadn’t stopped yet.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Roman said with a nod before settling on the couch, looking unnervingly at home with a slight satisfied smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Virgil stepped into his bathroom, flicking on the light and blinking in the sudden brightness.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment - at the streaks of blood on his face from when he’d rubbed his eyes, the pale, dry appearance of his skin, the mess of hair on the top of his head that he’d barely even touched in at least a few days - and he just shook his head.

What the hell had  _ happened _ to him?

He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t wanted to die.  The urges came and went, really, but the thought was always there, a consistent buzzing somewhere in the back of his head that never went away.

He was beginning to think it never would.

Virgil couldn’t remember what he’d looked like without dark circles under his eyes, scars and bruises lining his thighs and wrists, or the perpetual slump to his shoulders that made him look as small and hopeless as he felt.

With a sigh, Virgil began to wash the blood from his skin, bandage the cuts on his hands, and prepare himself for what he knew was going to be a long night.

 

In the morning, Roman was still there, sitting on the couch with that unnerving little smile.  The early-morning orange light that filtered through the windows cast a tanned glow on his face, lighting his eyes golden-brown like honey, and he looked up when Virgil entered.

“Ah, good, you’ve made it through the night.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed.  “Did you even sleep?”

Roman smirked.  “I find sleep pointless.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.  Do you want anything to eat?” Virgil asked, making his way to the kitchen and opening the fridge.

“That would be another no.  I do have a favor to ask of you, though.”

Slowly, Virgil turned to face Roman.  “...A favor?”

Roman stood, walked over, and handed Virgil a small slip of paper folded in half lengthwise, tucking it gently into his hand and wrapping his bandaged fingers around it.  “Open that piece of paper,” he instructed, “and go to the address written on it. Tell the man at the door that Roman sent you.”

Virgil frowned.  “What do you - ?”

Roman’s smile stopped him.  

That constant, strangely gentle smile.  

“I suppose you’ll just have to trust me, Virgil Sanders, won’t you?”

Virgil remained silent.

Roman squeezed his hand softly, just once, before walking out the door without another word.

Virgil didn’t notice the way he seemed to melt into the light as he left the apartment, too busy wondering how Roman knew his name in the first place.

 

It only took Virgil half an hour to find the address on that little slip of paper.  After a long hesitation, he rung the doorbell, wringing his hands as he waited for the door to open.

A man wearing a semi-formal combination of jeans, a short-sleeved, dark blue polo shirt, and a lighter blue tie answered the door, eyes narrowed with confusion.  “Hello?”

“Um, hi,” Virgil began nervously.  “I’m, um - my name is Virgil, Virgil Sanders?  And I got your address from Roman Prince. He sent me, I don’t know why.  I was hoping you could explain.”

The man’s gaze went from confused but open to guarded and suspicious.  “How do you know Roman? When did you talk to him?”

“Just last night, I, um…”  Virgil took a deep breath. “I was going to kill myself.  Roman found me, and he...he stopped me, brought me home, made sure I didn’t try again, and then told me to come here.”

Before Virgil could really process what had happened, the man’s arms were around him, his voice thick with emotion as he spoke.  “Come in.” He pulled away, eyes filled with tears. “Tell me everything. Please.”

He led Virgil inside, both of them sitting down in the living room.  It was a few moments before Virgil finally spoke.

“I don’t understand.  What happened?”

The man sighed, running a hand through his hair and straightening his tie, taking a moment to regain his composure.  “My name is Logan Veyne. Roman was...he was my roommate, and my best friend since high school.”

“He mentioned you,” Virgil chimed in.  “He said you two don’t really talk anymore.”

Logan’s eyes flashed with pain.  “That is one way to put it, I suppose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Roman - he, well…” Logan sighed, shaking his head.  “Three years ago, Roman killed himself.”

Virgil jerked back, shocked.  “What? But - but I just saw him last night!  He stayed at my apartment, he  _ gave me your address!” _

“I have no more of an explanation than you do,” Logan admitted.  “But if you’re telling the truth - and I have reason to believe you are - then that means Roman is still somewhere, and he is doing what he had always wanted to do when he was alive.”

“You’re telling me he always wanted to save some poor, fucked-up kid in a dark alley in the middle of the night?”

Logan shook his head.  “I’m telling you that he always wanted to make a difference.  He so often told me that if he could just change one person’s life for the better, maybe he could make it through his own.”  A slow, sad smile spread across Logan’s face as he let his gaze fall to the ground. “He never seemed to realize that he’d already changed mine.”

They sat in silence for so long that it felt like an eternity before Logan spoke again, all business in a way that sounded forced more than it was casual.

“Well, I have a busy day today.  Lots of - lots of things to do, errands to run.  I should really be on my way, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, of course,” Virgil said quickly.  “Sorry to bother you. And if I happen to see Roman again, I guess I’ll let you know?”

Logan smiled.  “That would be ideal.  Thank you, Virgil.”

 

Two days later, Patton returned to their apartment.  Virgil watched his brow furrow ever so slightly as he stepped in.

There was something in the air that was undeniable.

There always was, after one of Virgil’s attempts.

Patton dropped his bag by the door and walked over to where Virgil was sitting on the couch, taking his bandaged hand and studying it closely.  “When?” He asked softly, looking up to meet Virgil’s gaze.

“Three days ago.”

Patton bit his lip.  Virgil knew too well that an attempt so recent was cause for concern.  Within the hour, Patton would track down his knife, hide it, have fresh bandages on Virgil’s hand, and insist that the two of them sit on the couch, buried under piles of blankets, and have one of their usual movie nights - the kind with popcorn and all of their favorite films, the kind that was usually reserved for sleepless weekend nights.

But now was the time for talking.

“What stopped you?”

Virgil felt the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“I didn’t leave a note.”


End file.
